Sunday, September 30, 2007

The office is exactly two doors away. I swing out of bed and go to the hallway. The door to the office is closed. I’m compelled to knock.

“Enter,” he says.

The doorknob twists and it occurs to me that I’ve never turned it. Never had this door closed before. Christopher is at his desk, facing the other way.

“Yes?” I ask, trying to quell a laugh.

“What did you do with your vacation day yesterday?”

“I relaxed.”

“I can see that,” he says.

“Well, I suppose I should have done the dishes or something, but I just wanted to take a day and do nothing.”

“Why don’t you come over here?” he asks, getting out of his chair. I’m about to take it, but he kicks it to the side. “Bend over the desk, please,” he says, with a less polite hand on the back of my neck. I’m confused, but do it anyway. He reaches around my front, unties my sweatpants and drops them. He reaches around me, takes the mouse and double clicks on what I now notice is a folder full of .mov files. The silver window pops up and begins to play. It’s me in the bedroom, legs spread, fingers inside.

My ass is spanked, open handed and hard. In the video, the cat jumps on the bed, but I don’t notice her. I’m about to come, my head throwing back, my breasts cresting. The cat sits in the window and stares at me. Here, my ass is spanked again.

“Yes, I’ve got a camera in there. For good reason, it seems. This is what you do all day while I’m off” [spank] “earning money for us?”

There is no answer, so I don’t give one. He spanks me again, and I’m trembling. The pain, from its three centers, begins to join into one stinging, itching sore. In the video, I’m done, my chest heaving, my hand on my thigh, the cat looking out the window. He clicks that one shut and then picks another one. At first, he seems to look randomly, but then finds a specific file, one that seems to bother him the most. Double click and it’s me again, at this desk, my feet spread on either end of it. On the screen is a video. It’s too bright to make out, but I know what it was.

“All day long,” he says. He opens his lower left hand drawer, pulls out a paddle. I see this out of the corner of my eye, but try to turn anyway, to see one of these cameras. He doesn’t let me, takes my head and points it forward. “Yes, you have to look,” he grumbles. The exposure of my ass has become palpable to me. It suddenly feels cold, vulnerable. I didn’t know about the paddle. I dread it. “Look at yourself, you selfish little girl. This was about when I was working through lunch. I’m bent over my desk….” The paddle comes down. My knees bend, my face twists, my pussy, shockingly, swells. It’s the video, I tell myself, and feel the polished wood make gentle contact back where it hit, resting there. “And you’re straddling the one at home. Selfish!” he yells, and the paddle comes down again. “Selfish,” [smack], “selfish,” [smack] “selfish!” My eyes are tearing up. He leaves this video going and opens another, drags it to another corner of the screen. It’s me again, in the bathroom this time. Over the toilet, a bottle of baby oil to my right, a rabbit vibe in the other. My toes curl over the doorknob. I’m spanked again, again, again. My pussy is somehow lit, straining, dripping. He kicks my legs apart, opens yet another video. Me in bed again, a different part of the day, the sun higher across the comforter. The cat is at the foot, resting on my toes as if nothing is happening.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks.

“I…” [spank] “ouch.”

“That’s right, you greedy, selfish bitch.” [spank] “No consideration for me. No thought of my cock.” [spank} “Stupidly going to work while you diddle away all day.” In the video, my eyes stare vapidly at the ceiling. I can’t imagine what I was thinking about. Probably Christopher’s cock, actually. That I didn’t look forward and find a camera is a mystery. [spank] My ass is a giant, burning sting now, the desire in my pussy put into vivid contrast. I would do anything to have him in me right now.

Three movies open now. I’m coming in the one at the desk, my back bent over the chair, my legs trembling. It’s a strange picture. You never see a woman come in porn. I’ve never, actually, seen this before, my knees shut, my whole body rolling in the air. He distracts me with another spank and suddenly I’m impaled on him, his cock reaching for my liver.

“You do the work,” he says. I grasp the sides of the desk and begin to move, to service him. He spanks and I go tighter on him, trying to strangle him in my muscles. The desk video freezes, out of information. In the bathroom, my mouth hangs open, my foot slipping and catching on the door. I’m suddenly intensely envious of myself in these videos. My clit is screaming for contact with anything at all right now. I’m sweating from the effort, grinding Christopher, fucking him at this impossible angle. In the bed video, I’m screaming out “God, God, God, that’s it!” The cat is kicked off the bed with an indignant yelp. “Selfish bitch,” Christopher simply states. I can see his point now. There is rise deep in his nose, a gruff, sinister groan. He’s coming, and I slow on him until he freezes my hips in his hands. He pulls out and spanks me again.

“Close the videos, put something I like on your body and meet me downstairs. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

He leaves me bent over the desk. I know I shouldn’t, but I put my hands between my legs and slip the handle of the paddle inside. It’s still warm from his fist. A few hard swipes on my clit and I come, squirming over the desk, falling to my knees. My ankles hit my ass and I can feel the red hot in the cheeks. After a few moments, I pull myself up, control q the videos away, and go to my bedroom dresser to find something to wear.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

I can’t do anything until we get in. Rushing through the airport, the baggage in the car, people looking at us, but no one saying anything, just rushing down moving sidewalks and through automatic doors until the last one opens and there’s the car, rushing into it. For however long it will last, the last piece of him for a while.

I’d looked forward to it for months, though I never said anything, or even thought about it directly. But it was there and we both knew it, a room outside of our lives, away from our homes, the old routine, if only for one night it was something. And the day was fine. We were just beaming, like children, like we’d just met, like it was all in front of us. There would be nights in front of us and I lied to myself, just in case it didn’t happen. I lied and told myself we were together again. Because I didn’t want to think about the next day, today, when we take the limo home and there are more months ahead of us before we can be alone again. Alone without a lying phone call or a time limit, when we would have hours together away from ourselves, the pillow fort that we hide in, a sheet over it, reading stories to each other with our flashlights.

Corey’s room was right next to mine so I didn’t have to wait long. I answered the door and he was there, an expression of something in him, his face vexed and hopeful, like mine. Exhausted with want and worry and dread and happiness. I let him in and he hugged me tightly to him, finally time for affection. Finally enough time to feel each other, not a quick fuck in the back seat or a drunk dial early in the morning. We stood for a long time like that in the hallway of my room and I felt like I was falling apart, but I swallowed it down, like pushing ice through a hose. I finally broke it off and made us a couple of drinks. He sat on the bed and wiped his mouth back and forth in his hand.

“Are you happy?” he asked, his voice split in two.

I didn’t answer him, but swallowed again, chasing it with the vodka and cranberry I’d made for myself. I gave him his drink and he drank it fast. We sat next to each other, our shoulders pressed in harshly to one another. His hand, cold from the drink, trailed up my beard and I kissed it.

He backed up to the headboard and I followed him. He turned to his side, pulled me into him and kissed me. We took our time. And it hurt. It hurt like hell. Every millimeter between us stung.

The first thing we do in the limo is raise the barrier. He pushes me down into the seat and takes his jeans off. I take off my own. He falls onto me and sinks his tongue into my mouth. I sit up and push him down instead, lube from my bag drizzled on his asshole and the look in his eyes that I’m avoiding. In the room, we took each other’s clothes off slowly. I felt his skin against mine and I almost lost it again. We lay there, our mouths moving into each other, our legs wrapped into each other, all the things I wanted to say getting packed down deeper into my gut. “I love you,” I said, finally, this little admission sent up to explain everything below. And that hurt enough, letting that pass through.

I unzip my bag in the footwell and put the tips of my fingers over his bottom teeth. Don’t say anything. Just don’t. I don’t want any of that. There’s just no fucking time. We put it off and this is it. When I’m coated and my dick, my sullen brain not affecting it at all, pulses in the air, I concentrate on that. I raise his knees onto my chest and slam into him, he whimpers three little jittery inhales over his teeth like he stepped on something sharp. I add more lube and press on, stanching the pain in my chest that I’m ignoring. I’ll deal with you later.

“I. Shit, Alec, I love you too,” he said, breaking the kiss. He put his fingers in my hair and pressed his cheek into mine. “I love you too. I can’t live without you. I can’t do anything at the work. Can’t do anything at home. I’m faking everything. I’m a fucking wreck and I can’t, shit, dammit, shit, no, I just. I don’t want to do this. I can’t talk to you about this. I just want to lay here with you, okay? I just want to lay here.” And I didn’t know what to do. So I crushed him to me and I closed my eyes and tried to be happy for him. And they came anyway, branding my fucking cheeks they were so hot.

He’s getting into it and I’m looking down at him, my arms wrapped tight around his thighs and I’ve never gone so hard, so reckless, so desperate and angry at him. I feel like slapping him I’m so mad. But it’s not him I’m mad at. It’s that tomorrow he’ll be next to me again. And I’ll have to lie. And I’ll have to get into my car and go home. I’m sweating and thinking about how I’m going to explain it. And I’m mad about that too. And I just want to fuck him forever. And I just want to come. And I want to hate him. The feel of his body on mine, I want to hate that. He grasps his cock, but I slap it away and take it myself, quick and cold.

We spent the entire night awake and quiet like that, broken up only occasionally by a quaking shoulder and a word or two. In the morning, late for the airport and rushing to pack everything, I patted my jacket from the night before.

“I have something to show you,” I said. I opened up my wallet and pulled out my stack of I.D.s, credit cards and such. Between the Nieman’s and the Blockbuster, I pulled out a lunch receipt. “It’s from the day we met. It’s been in here ever since.”

He looked at it and bit his lip. I put it all back.

“Come, dammit,” I say to him. “Come, Corey. Come.” I feel my fingernails graze him a couple of times, but I don’t care. Sweat drips through my eyebrows and into my eyes and I take that sting too.

“Alec, I… Alec. Alec.”

“Shut up. Just fucking come.” My body is pulsing. I’m burning, but it doesn’t matter. And I’m fighting everything. I just want to fight. I hate all of it. His shoulders lift off of the seat and I feel his ass twist and lock on me and he shoots out all over my hand and I’m seething and trying not to think of anything but that. When I stop thinking, my whole body explodes and it’s not enough. It’s not enough to feel his knees in my chest and call his name out. It’s not enough to stanch anything. Because I want last night back. I pull out of him and pick him up and hold him so close to me and he pulls out of it with a squeeze on my knee. We get to my neighborhood. We put our clothes on silently and I kiss him hard before I get out of the car, a squeeze on the hand that’s nowhere near enough.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #99? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

Note: Details of the Sugasm #100 celebrations will appear in Tuesday’s post request.

This Week’s PicksAnal, her perspective“This entire anal sex episode had started some months earlier, on a theoretical level.”

Sunday, September 23, 2007

We lounge on your couch, grape-eating style, our legs intertwined, your cock lazy and curled on your stomach, one of your balls hanging between your thighs, the other stuck against your left thigh. Your stomach is hairy, soft, reddish brown. It’s flat, the result of years of agonizing denial and a certain Siddhartha masochism. Mine isn’t. It’s round and pudgy, jovial, the result of years of lazing around on couches. Doctors could cut me open and count the rings, “Ah,” they’d say to each other, “that was 2002, the year she found out she liked mayonnaise.” “It was a good year,” the other would say. You poke me in the stomach with your big toe and look me in the eye. I smile.

“Why aren’t there any good words for female masturbation?” you ask, as if it’s been my responsibility all along to create one.

“The only good one I ever heard was ‘petting the old man in the rowboat,’ but we need something shorter.”

My nipple is hard now, could tickle the bottom of your feet if you’d let it. My mouth has been opening slowly. I close it.

“Flicking’s good,” I say, because I can’t think with you doing that.

“How often do you flick, then?” you ask, releasing my nipple. You drop your foot between my side and the couch, supporting my back with it. Your toenails scratch an itch.

“It varies. About three times a week on average, but I’ve been known to let it drop to once a week.”

“My God, how do you live like that?” you ask, a twitch in your cock. I pretend not to notice.

“But I have many weeks where I must at least once a day, and some days are completely lost in self-ravaging.”

“Flicking, darling.”

“Flicking. Mostly it varies on time and opportunity. You?”

“Twice a day.”

“Standard.”

“Is it, do you think?”

“Uh-huh. But this morning…. Have you today?”

“Saving it up,” you say, casually. I smile though. You risk a glance and see it. The compliment hit. “You?”

“Saving it up.”

“Why?”

“It’s better if I haven’t in a while.”

“I’m saving because I want to coat that pretty face of yours, though.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.”

“Hopeless romantic, that’s me,” you joke, but the twitch has become something of a half-erection. “How do you do it?” you ask. We’re going down that road now.

I blush. I buy time. “Do what?”

“Flick,” you say, simply, the K sound emphasized and precise.

“I open the lips, check for wetness….”

“Show me.”

I knew this was coming, but I’m still blushing madly. This conversation is a lot like being tied down. I stare at you, all faux-shock, but you continue to calmly watch, all seriousness and scientific curiosity. My hand slides down and I throw a leg, as elegantly as I can, over the back of your couch. Your eyes drop. My finger goes in, separates the lips so you can see, so I’m exposed to you. I dip a finger, wet, and work back up. And there, less of a flick and more like a rub, I begin.

I’m watching your cock, the arc it makes over your lower abdomen as it raises, unfurls, solidifies. It’s a perfect fit for my mouth and I think about that as I rub myself, what that tastes like, what it feels like to flatten your veins under my lips, making you lose yourself finally, making you unleash, grasping my shoulder as you explode. It works well, my hand coated now. My eyes open again and you’re breathing deeply, an open look in your face and your cock hovering over your lower body, finding no friction in the air. Your hands, however, lay calmly on your chest and between the couch and its cushions. I’m going in then. You can’t expect me to stay here.

I draw my legs back, lean forward, roll onto my knees, and handless, pull your cock into my mouth with a hooked tongue. The rounded tip, the nose of a rocket, all swollen and spongy in the skin. Farther, my lips sliding over the tip, like making my way over the points of an arrow, headed for the shaft, and the skin here is softer, looser. It’s been years since I’ve had an uncut one in my mouth. I play with it for awhile, move the skin around with the tip of my tongue, then try to hold the slack with it, moving back and forth along the skin with my lips. My fingers slip easily over my clit, the angle allowing a free flow of slick wetness to my fingers. Now, farther down on your cock, the lips scouting before they pull you in, my tongue welcoming you, warming you, teasing you and tasting you. And my fingers find a new high, and my back arches for a moment. I snap them off of me for a moment, grab your balls instead, cradle them, pull them a little in their tight suede bag. Then, my fingers still a little wet, now receiving a bit of the saliva that drips from my mouth, I go behind your balls, massage you there firmly.

You jump a little as I find a rhythm, matching the swing of my fingers to the one in my neck. I want to ask you what you want, but my mouth is full.

“Go back to yourself,” you say. “Get flicking, girl.”

So I let your cock down slowly, push off your knees and sit back, my legs splaying even less elegantly than before. And there, the fingers of my left hand spread my lips in a V shape, my clit left out there, a helpless little thing to be battered, hard like a cherry and soaking in its own brandy. The other hand reaches and batters it, pushes harder into the side, and I can feel it throb, my mind singularizing on this spot, clit, clit, clit. You’ve started to stroke yourself, and your lips pull. Your eyes close for a moment and you have a half swoon. So do I. You sit up, crawl to me on your knees, and whimper. Come squirts before you’re ready, swipes my breasts, my stomach, my clit. I rub it in there and lose you and the world for a moment, crash inside, lose thought and self. There is you and there is peace and there is joy and then, then, then, there is breath again.

“You know,” you say, falling back to your side of the couch, “when I was watching you….”

“Yeah?”

“I think ‘petting the old man in the rowboat’ might be better.”

I roll some of your come in my index finger and flick it in your face.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

He bent over, touched his toes, a high-pitched defiance from his thighs. He did it again. And again. Tips of fingers into the hair on his toes. Then against the wall, one leg back, the foot forward and flat, leaning. This muscle complaint more subtle, more of a groan than a shriek. Pulling, pulling. Then the other foot, the other shin, his cheek pressing into the wall. Onto the floor then, his legs apart, toes pointed. He leaned over one leg, grasped his foot in two hands and pulled until he could kiss his leg. It hurt. Terribly. He had to anyway. To the other leg, foot held, nose down, pain and dismay against the mat. A few rotations of his torso, left, right, left right, his elbows in the air. His arms pulled behind his back, across his front, balance in the distortion. His fingers were loosened, his forearm taking the brunt shock. Finally, his reward. He dropped back into a half somersault and remained there, his legs in a triangle above his face, his cock there. He opened his mouth and sucked it in.

He licked the tip, felt the instant sensation given to him, the shock in his balls. He bent his neck more, dropped his knees a little. Around the tip, now, beyond the tip. He rocked, bouncing his knees, pulling his shins up. Inside, out, in, out, like he was teasing himself. A bottle of lube was just off the mat and he reached for it. His lips pressed hard into himself, knew where his spots were, rubbed them cautiously. He opened the bottle and poured some lube into his hand, difficult at this angle, but he was practiced. Enough to coat, not so much that he would get a lot in his mouth. He wrapped his hand around the his cock and rubbed. It was all about his tongue now, the tastebuds against the skin, a glow encouraged out of him. He tasted his own precome, something he’d gotten to love, and sucked for more.

His neck ached, but it was a familiar ache, one that meant sex to him. His back complained, but that’s just what it did. The pleasure was more than enough to suffice, this kind of gratification, intimacy with oneself, and the knowledge that he could. Of course, he could never take his time here, and rubbed quickly at himself, the lube taste mixing with the precome in his mouth, sweet and chemical. His tongue rocking and holding, rocking and holding.

And there, a light beginning to be coaxed out of his balls, and his body wanted to straighten. He forced himself to stay. He stroked faster, his legs bending at the knee. He sucked a farewell to the tip of his cock and let it go, his mouth open, teeth exposed. He let his strokes cover more, moving up. There was a low note in his body, the beginning of anything by Beethoven, then a climb and more fighting his muscles. His mouth let out a gasp but his eyes weren’t closed long. They watched, fascinated, as he shot out, heard it against his teeth, felt it on his lips, one shot directly at the back of his throat and swallowed before it gagged him. The taste, a full one now and everywhere, tart and savory and organic. And his. All his, his own funk and his own delight.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #98? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

Monday, September 17, 2007

And here I am again, in your bedroom in the basement, my head against your chest because I need to move into it. It’s got some part of me lashed to its ribcage and I struggle to bungee right back to it. I’ve got to know everything about you, will perform surgery on your body and your soul, skin surgery, just what I can find out by holding a glass up to the wall. I could feel your heartbeat coming down the stairs, the smell of your body, one that I’ll remember years from now, that lets me know that I can. That I’m here with that bit in your ribcage again. And there are your lips, and I seriously want to cry because I know I’ll have to leave them sometime, to get up and earn my keep or change my clothes or buy a tax sticker for the car. And the breath. Have we had a new one lately? It seems that all we do is trade the same one, mist and bonfires and your toes in mine.

We’re flat out against each other and my instinct is to raise my legs. You take them in your elbows and sway them and we gasp, but you won’t do it. I lie and pant and want to scream, but you won’t. Some stupid barrier in your brain. Something left over from walking in on your parents fucking, or some retarded religious bullshit from your choir boy days, or your uncle slapping your dick with a newspaper when you were caught masturbating. I know it’s not me. And I know better than to try, that I could make you run away, that you’ve put all this on a pedestal so high that now it’s just habit, saying no to me, and to everyone else. And that’s the thing. I hold up for you anyway, petrified, but writhing, ready to come just being close to it. And you hold, still kissing me, still having confessed to loving me once a week in a broken cough, because that three word agent makes a mess of whatever it’s representing. I know you’re thinking about it. My eyes shut tight and I go Zen thoughtless, only waiting for that, the thing I want so bad, the last frontier of contact with you. And it doesn’t come. My legs are returned to the bed and I’m turned and spooned. Neither one of us needs to look at the other’s face anymore. My fingers dig into a pillow and I press it into my chest. So I don’t smother you with it. The object of all of my affections, cold and as fucked up as me.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

The Chef’s uniform, the one you see in clip art with the puffy, cloudlike toque and the wry mustache, perhaps being twisted by the owner upon serving the meal, isn’t just a caricature. There is a reason for all that stuff. The toque, though lately replaced by a kind of paper corrugation in the style of folded napkins, is there to displace heat in the kitchen and soak up sweat. The pants are thick and baggy so that you may sense contact with a hot stove before burning yourself on it. The jacket is also thick, and can be reversed to hide stains. And there are symbols too. Of course there are symbols. The kitchen is the warzone and the cooks are there to wage war with the organic. There is a strict rank in a kitchen, executive Chef, who’s name is on the door, sets the menu, arguably the make and break of the restaurant, and oversees everything from the hiring to the purchasing to the freshness of the rosemary sprigs. Mostly, the executive is to be found alternately schmoozing VIPs and running into the kitchen to scare the staff and maintain chaos.

Just under the executive is the Chef de cuisine, who runs the place in the absence of the executive, which can be from all the time to never, but is usually just most of the time. Under him are the sous Chefs, or usually is just the sous Chef. The sous Chef is the one with all of the responsibility, who runs the kitchen and beats his or her underlings down with an arbitrary and iron fist, is, in turn, the bitch of the executive and the Chef de cuisine. He or she must cover for the abhorrent behavior of his betters, doing everything from picking up their dry cleaning to mopping up their vomit before the customers smell it. The sous Chef, in turn, bullies everyone else into submission. It’s their ass in the sling if anything goes wrong.

Under them, through a complicated series of ranks and psuedoranks and subranks lies me, the line cook. There is only one answer to anything that is asked of the line cook to anyone who is not a fellow line cook or the dishwasher. Yes, Chef. Yes, Chef. This is a war and there is no time for argument. Chef, after all, means chief.

Milo is my Chef. A sous Chef, to be specific. The one hundred folds in Milo’s toque, etched onto his forehead in boiled blood at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, are symbols of the things that he can do with an egg. His jacket has his name on it, his rank and even a few ribbons, honors and ownerships and bitches he’s broken. He’s already at work, but he’s left an order behind on the scraps of ordering paper that we have all over the house. I read it and walk to the bedroom. Yes, Chef. It’s inserted and I stand straight, sweat appearing in bolt heads on my face.

Down the stairs and walking, the thing beats electricity into my legs. The pants, just lowly line cook pants, are baggy enough to hide my joy. The walk, the burning grin on my face, is only two blocks long, appropriately up a steep hill, which bounces the thing in my ass mercilessly. At the top of the hill is Ile-de-France, my own Pot au Feu, boiled down to my essence in my own blood. I enter through the back, the restaurant’s asshole, and I’m compelled to speak to a few specks, like me, dangling in the shorthairs.

“Hola, maricón,” Manuel says, and the rest of them laugh as if this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

“Just because you keep begging to suck my cock every day doesn’t make me a maricón,” I answer in Spanish. The thing is, they can say the same thing every day, but you’ve got to come up with a fresh answer every time.

“See you cleaned up that pearl necklace I gave you last week, Chaco. Or did you save it in case you run out of truffle oil?”

This is enough for now. They don’t know about Milo and me. It’s just the standard insult for whitey in the kitchen. Milo’s pubes in my teeth, his balls against my chin. Same thing every day. The weight in my ass brings me up again. Milo is there, large, hairy, top-heavy like a bulldog and his own bolt-heads of sweat.

“Hey, you think you got some fucking baby shower to go to or something? Get the fuck in the fucking kitchen, you lazy piece of shit. Get to fucking work.”

I’m a half-hour early. “Yes, Chef.”

“Do I have to tattoo the time that you’re supposed to show up on your nuts or something?” My insides are burning. I can’t even look at him. “Get your mis en fucking place sometime before your cock draws back into a cunt and get the fuck going.”

I’m running as he says this, the slips on the relief mats not greasy enough to worry me yet. The nerves on the insides of my arms are tingling and I can’t remember a thing. His abuse is like wildfire in my pubes and I’m visibly sighing. I concentrate on it, what it’s told me I can do. Sauté station. Pans, bent into the grill, sauces, baskets, fresh meat to be checked, vegetables of all types and slices and spices and oil. It’s run back to the station, placed, unveiled, rejected, replaced and restocked. The hollandaise provided to me is broken. Milo sees this and throws it on the ground. It splatters up the inside of my pants leg and settles in my socks. I run to clean it up, but Milo says, “What the fuck are you doing? Make another batch, you fucking dog dick.”

“Yes, Chef.”

I turn, panicked, to the walk-in and slip in the filth. I fall to the relief mat and don’t say ouch. The vinegar and rancid lemon falls into new cuts, but I’ve got to get the stuff. Milo walks off to go at someone else.

The doors open and the tables fill. Somewhere, a few hours later, my lamb noisettes are found wanting and thrown in my face. Linguini is dribbled, in onion and butter, down my front. And I’m in a trance, on, the food a blur and my mind in a state of half-conscious production and losing time. The cold piece of metal in my ass is a metronome, a cock that never loses blood, in half-erection all day, kept at respectful distance from the flat top.

I know it’s about 9:30 when we begin to slow, when the world beyond the six square feet just in front of me begins to reappear in blotches of stainless steel. I have one moment to myself and take it back to the walk-in, to restock the fennel and the lamb chops, and perhaps to give my face and neck a good wipe. I’m at the shelves, holding plastic bins and turning around when I’m taken by the shoulders and run backward to a metro rack. His, Milo’s, hands take my bins and place them to the side. He adjusts me until my ass, and its attachment, are level with the metal on the shelves. The cold radiates, penetrates my sphincter. My knees wobble.

“Take your pants down.”

“Yes, Chef.”

He has a squeeze bottle of oil and points it at me. It squirts and inhales. “Do it,” he says, his quiet authority in silhouette against the light bulb at the ceiling. His arms are folded. My cock jumps at the cold, but goes quickly hard in my hand. “Can’t you go faster?” he says. I reluctantly nod. I’m going swift as an immersion mixer, the metal in my ass biting in hard. I’m watching him and begging in my head. Let me. Let me.

He stops me. “That’s enough,” he says. He slaps it. I don’t say ouch. “Pull your pants up and cook something.” I suit back up and grab the bins with shaky hands. He takes the ring on the metal in me and turns me to the door. “And try to keep your pigtails out of it, you little girl.”

I want to take a moment to recover, but he kicks the handle of the door and pushes me out, the air hot as a deep fryer, the sweat melting immediately and dripping down my neck. I move to my station and press my pelvis into the stove. I don’t say ouch.

“Maricón!”

“What, Efrain?”

“He take you the cooler and makes you suck his cock?”

Ah ha ha ha ha!

“No, Manuel was in there getting stuck like pork on a spit, so I let them have a moment.”

“Maybe some time you suck my cock, eh?”

Ah ha ha ha ha!

“Your cunt might get offended.”

And that’s enough. I look at my arm. I’ve got a new burn, a pink slash welting up where I’d touched the burner. He’ll like that, I think.

The night goes by slower and clearer now, until news trickles in that we’re done, the hour of cleaning ahead and the disinfectant in my oily wounds. I’ve been here eleven hours and they went by like five. I can feel them only when I lean on something, my hips seeming to creak. My hands are coming apart under the silver roughage of a steel scrubber, when I hear, “Travis!”

“Yes, Chef!”

“Come.”

“Yes, Chef!”

He leads me, his ass like two roasts under the seam of his jacket, to the dish room, which has been empty for a half hour.

“Strip.”

“Yes Chef.”

I lay my clothes on the main machine, but he throws them onto the ground. The floor is clean, but it’s still wet. I await his orders. He stands me in the center of the room and hits me with the dish sprayer.

“What will you do for me!” he yells.

“Whatever you ask, Chef!”

The water is a little hot.

“Good. And what will I do for you?”

“Nothing that I don’t earn, Chef.”

“That is the right answer.”

He sprays me and sprays me. I feel it in cuts and burns, sores and rashes. And I feel it in the toy, the radiation of the heat in the metal. I stand with my legs apart, panting. He looks at me in appraisal. I hope I pass.

“You wore the toy,” he says, dropping the spray onto it from behind. “You did well tonight.” He approaches me, wraps his clothed body around me, still full of grease and splatter, the jets directly on the toy now. “You can come.”

It’s hard to admit what he’s done to me, but there they are, near tears of thanks. He has an oil bottle and coats my cock with it. I go to spread it in and begin, but he slaps my hand away.

“Learn,” he says. He holds the ring of the toy in my ass and twists his hand, covered in scars and the pits where fingertips used to be, around my cock. Then, strongly, he pumps. It’s a few seconds or two minutes, time blurring here too, before he kneels suddenly at my feet, as I come on his face, his expert timing pulling the toy out just at the right moment, and his tongue, what’s made him the man he is, now licking my sauce out of his beard.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #97? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

Note: Sam’s been working on the Sugasm and it looks like our glitches are fixed. To get the post requests on time you’ll need to subscribe to the Sugasm RSS.

Monday, September 10, 2007

The bathtub was one of those old kinds, yet not old enough to have those claws around those orbs. Oh well. The fixture was old too, brass and tin plate that hung from the iron behind it like a flaccid penis. The handles, the cocks, were satisfying to hold and turn. They occupied her hand like they were holding it. She put the stopper in and turned the handle marked C, chaud and steam-flanked water came forth, pummeling the stopper. She let the room steam as she prepared for the bath.

The bath pillow had been exchanged for one of those water worm kids’ toys, the better to hold her arms and shoulders out of the tub. It was now permanently bent in a U shape, to accommodate the tub. There was oil now instead of the bubble bath, which had always dried her skin. The oil let that part of her body survive the winter, stopped the islands of crust that would appear on her upper arms before they had a chance to become permanently settled. There was the shower attachment, rounded at the female end like the tail of a condom to perfectly circle the bathtub spout. She hung this from the rounded end of the tub, its shower end twisted off, now a headless tube, beige like her skin in the summer or the faux generic color of Band-Aids.

The room properly steamed, she shut the door tightly. The lock had long ago ceased to work, but the house had settled enough for the door to hold fast. It would take three good shoves to open, give her enough time to prepare for visitors. No one ever knocked in her house. She turned the other cock, marked F, froid, and the water, a little tamed now in temperature, came down in a cataract, causing Niagara-style chaos below. She put a washcloth down, tested the water, made adjustments and slipped a toe inside. Always toe-first in the water, the land always hands first. Imagine the first fish stepping out onto dry land with its rear fins. She returned to the pond and found it body temperature, warm oil slicks floating cheerfully on top, waiting to coat her in citrus-scented softness. A single candle on the toilet seat coloured the room in orange-yellow, her eyes adjusted to it now, she pulled the other leg in and lowered herself, gracefully, to the iron floor.

A hot bath is cruelty, she thought, a forced sweat and skin on your toes shriveling fast like overcooked hot dogs. A cold bath is nice in the summer for a while, but eventually turns cloying, wishy-washy, boring. A thirty-seven point zero Celsius bath is like floating in nothing. In the dark, it’s easier to imagine. She could close her eyes in the candlelight and feel as though she were suspended in the air, could take up flight if she felt like it. She didn’t feel like it, preferred to hover in the ether. It strangely made movement harder, but her weight less consequential. She put her legs up on either side of the spigot and waited until she was covered.

She watched the water crawl up her skin, the curl of its surface tension up her stomach. Her breasts began to float, the nipples hard and pointing up, too stubborn to drown. She hooked a toe in the ring of the stopper and pulled it out. The drain, choked with the influx, fought before it gave in to a steady flow. It matched the incoming flood from the faucet. She attached the condom end to the spigot and waited, her thumb at the other end, the headless tube between her thighs. And then, the stream, the pressure, which played in her public hair and blew the lips of her pussy apart.

It was manageable, almost imperceptible at this strength. She could see only a minor dent in the skin of her thigh if she pressed it in. It was almost silent too, just a dull swish under the water. Years ago, an old boyfriend used to clean her asshole this way, would press the headed shower extension between the cheeks of her ass until it was power-washed. He’d then lift it out of the water for a good suck, a good lick and kiss. She moved this softer, subtler stream down to it now first thing, closing her eyes and remembering his lips, the euphoria of it, the intimacy. She then put her thumb over the open end, just a little bit at a time, until the force was almost unbearable and she had to stop.

Then up, slowly, a forceful beating at her hole, then slowly, teasingly, further up, the thumb released again, up, and there, just there, the soft, continuous stream of pleasure, twisting into elation.

She could leave it like this, often thought of trying it, seeing how long it took to bring her up and then down, the slowest growing orgasm in her life, but she’d never made it. Her thumb did what it had to, and dropped over the end of the tube, sending the slow, oxbow-forming, wide river into crashing rapids, the kind that wrap around her clit like whitewater grudgingly wearing away at a stubborn rock.

She wasn’t thinking of this, had perfected this dance ages ago. Her mind was full of skin and hard cock. It was at her face and in her mouth. It was in her pussy or in her hands. She was watching men masturbate, or watching them get sucked. Their heads lolled behind them, their hands clenched at the air. She was tied down sometimes and used or whipped or spanked. Sometimes there were no men at all but machines or dildos on walls. Sometimes there were women suckling her nipples. Sometimes there was nothing but her and the shower extender, her clit, the little, helpless pearl, out there to be battered.

Sometimes soon, sometimes later, her mind would rise and her back would tense. Her mouth would open and she would only have the weakest sense of herself in the world. She would suffer and she would whine quietly and she would lose the crank in the cogs in her head. She would burst with it, a supernova in miniature, and slowly, over the period of the remainder of her bath, shrink back to herself, a little better than before.

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Clark sits on the roof of The Daily Planet, watching the slow rotation of the world. Metropolis is all lights and the squeaking of brakes. He loves it here, but decides to do it anyway. He holds his breath for a few moments, thinks of Lois, her bright eyes. She teased him today, his winter boots, large and furry. She said he ought to shave his legs, farmboy. The weather doesn’t bother him, but she does. He bought the boots for the tease. He exhales smoothly and evenly, starting with the clouds. Atoms stick to atoms in them and they begin to come down, alarming frozen ice shards. He can do snowflakes, convincing ones even if they’re simple, but he doesn’t have the time. The ice shards make little flock flock noises as they hit his face and overcoat. He knows that the shock of his body breaks them at the crystalline level. He wonders if they would hurt a normal man and eases them back a little bit. That’s the problem with imperviousness. Tweaking is impossible.

He blows, still in the same breath, across new windcurrents, rearranging them, creating distortion in the upper atmosphere that drift down through the higher air pressure. He finishes with a few small puffs aimed at power lines miles in the distance. He focuses in on them and watches them fall. Large parts of the city go dark except for a few headlights and cigarettes. Each pop makes him feel bad, but it’s nights like this that keep the spirit of the city up. People need a challenge to come together, he thinks, then laughs at his pun.

The Daily Planet goes dark, and more importantly, Lois’s apartment goes dark. He made sure of that, snapped the little power line right on her street. If he’s going to do this, he will not mess up. He’s a perfectionist when it comes to Lois. Because Lois is perfection. It’s time to rush down to her now, turn over a few chairs in a bumbling way. Call out her name, as if he needs her help, is afraid of the dark. There is no dark for him. He’s embarrassed watching people struggle in it, their eyes open and arms out. He wants to help them, but he can’t.

“I love you, Lois,” he says in a voice that’s booming, but so low-pitched that only he can hear it, and heads down to save her.

“It’s alright, Lois, no monkey business. I’ll sleep on the couch,” Clark says just before he closes the door. She watches him lock it before she sighs and accepts the night ahead of her.

“Did you just say ‘monkey business’?” she asks, but shakes his response off before he can give it to her. A housefly hovers over her head. He’s mortified and takes it out with a quick zap of the eyes. It lands on her head, legs in the air. He sends a quick puff to throw it off of her. “Drafty in here, huh?” she says. He sighs. Flies or drafts, he will always disappoint her. She goes to his framed pictures on the windowsill. When she looks at his visage, he sends warm waves to her pussy from behind. He’s never done this before, not on purpose. His X-ray vision shows some subtle effects. So far, so good. “You know what, Clark?” she says, a little cautiously, “You were a good looking kid. Is that your house?”

“Yes,” Clark says. He warms his body temperature as he walks to her, radiates near her. He’s not doing it on purpose. He asked Jimmy one day if this happened to him when he was in love and Jimmy stared at him for a moment. Clark panicked, thought he’d just given something away, but Jimmy just admitted that he’d never been in love with a girl before.

Lois looks a little awkward, searching for a way into normal conversation, Clark at her side. He reaches around her, positively molten now, and points at the photo of the house. “Yes,” he says. “That’s the tree that my father planted as a boy, that’s him there, and this is the back door, and this is the window to my bedroom.” It was a bad way to end it, the mention of the bedroom. Clumsy. But he couldn’t find anything else in the picture to comment on. He has lots of powers, but smell isn’t one of them. His sense of smell is simply normal. For the first time in his life, he regrets it. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to Lois before in calm air and would love to smell every part of her. He smells only her hair and that Lois perfume.

The space between them is palpable, more liquid than gas. Clark can see her breasts rise and fall slowly in his peripheral vision. He stands quietly and radiates, happier than he’s ever been. The rest of it would be nice, but he doesn’t need it anymore. He turns his head and says it again, if anything, louder than he did before, “I love you, Lois!”

“That was weird,” she says. “Did you just feel that?”

“Can I get you anything?” he asks, pushing up his glasses. Standing this close, she can see they’re non-prescription and he shouldn’t have drawn attention to them, but he did anyway. Habit.

She turns to him and looks for a moment right at him. He thinks his jig is up until he realizes she’s only looking at his eyes.

“No, thank you. It’s late.” She breaks apart from him. “I’m going to bed.” As she walks away, he gets a good look at her pussy. It’s dripping. He considers running to her, picking her up, sweeping her into the sky, surrounding her in the warmth of his cape, watching the ice shards melt on her skin as he makes love to her. His feet remain where they are and he listens to the crush of the ice on his windows.

He lies on the couch and watches her try to sleep through the wall. She turns and flips and pulls at his shirt. He’s been popping her with warmth, as subtle as rain in the summer. In the end, he’d be content to do this all night, to watch her squirm, make her lose her inhibitions and make herself come. He’s lying in a fetal position on the couch, the ache in his pajama pants begging for relief. “Make love to me,” he says in the deep voice, not terribly loudly. “Make love to me, Lois.”

Lois opens her legs and slips her fingers into the side of her panties. Clark gasps. She punches the mattress.

“Fuck it,” she says, and Clark is shocked at the word. His mouth is still open when she gets out of bed, goes to him on the couch, spreads his legs and lies down between them.

“Is this okay, Clark?” Her voice is broken as if she’s been crying, but it always gets this way when she’s under any kind of stress. “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t… know… what’s coming… over me.”

“Lois,” he says in a controlled voice that sounds too much like his alter ego, “I….” He kisses her and she begins to move over him, to slide on him, to let her fingers go to all his places. He shivers like a scared schoolgirl and he wonders if some of this Clark persona has started to metastasize onto his real personality. He picks her up from what should be an impossible leverage and carries her reverently back to the bedroom, the side of her bottom bumping his penis, and lays her down, his hands sliding up her sides as lets her down, finally ending in her hair. He opens her legs and lets his cheeks brush across the inside of her thighs as he descends. He pushes forward, the smell of her at last, and wraps the loose crotch of her panties in one superhuman finger.

She can’t know, he reminds himself. Why can’t she know? She just can’t, he reminds himself again. He leans into her glistening want, splits her between the finger and thumb and lets her have this, just this. That’s the least of what she deserves.

His tongue flaps so fast on her that his saliva can barely balance out the friction. He makes quick, indiscernible dips down between licks to pick up some of her oozing sweet to keep it up. She has an orgasm, releasing across the bed madly, sheets in her fists, with barely a moment to yell before he brings her to another. He works her into three before she begs him to stop, begs him to come up and fuck her. She said that word again. He accepts it. She can’t quite be all there right now.

He climbs her, dropping his pajamas as he goes, her face still open and panting. He keeps his face away to be polite, but she leans forward and kisses him anyway, a feral Lois, new and shocking. “Fuck me,” she says again, taking his penis to her between two fingers, pushing him forward with her legs around his torso.

She can’t know, he reminds himself. Why can’t she know? She just can’t, he reminds himself again. He struggles, counting, as he makes love to her, as she sheathes him inside of her. He tweaks it until he thinks he has a normal pace, though he can’t say for sure. He keeps it to the same rhythm that Mr. White exhibited when he mimed making love to a temp. It’s good this way anyway, he tells himself. He can pay attention to every part of her, can nuzzle her neck and tenderly cup her breasts. She’s sweating and he can taste it. He loves her, knows that he’s practically setting fire to her with his body temperature but can’t help it. He opens his eyes for a moment and burns a cigarette-sized hole in the pillow next to her face. Darn.

“What’s burning?” she asks, but soon forgets it.

She sighs, stops him, makes some adjustment, feels his penis in her fingers and bends her knees back to her chest. She guides his penis down as he stares at her, unsure of what she’s doing. “Lois?” he says.

She pushes his penis into her behind. “Lo-“ he starts again, then feels the tight around him. He swallows and waits disbelievingly as she slowly falls onto him, wincing. A wall inside of her relaxes. He gets in further. He is overcome by the tight, the intense pressure of her. Another wall falls and she relaxes. “Go,” she says.

He begins to make love to her behind, his mind melted, his body outside of his control. He starts to go as fast as he can, which is to say, faster that any normal man can. Her eyes squint and she has another orgasm. He’s sure that he’s hurt her, but she’s not hurt, she screams his name out. “Clark!” she yells.

“Lois, I love you,” he says in a normal voice, the sense in him vanished somewhere in the air.

“I love you too, Superman,” she says.

He has no time to react, pulls out before he gets her, orgasms with Superman force, blowing a hole in her pillow and consequently the wall. Feathers are flying when he opens his eyes. One lands on her lips. She puffs it away and smiles at him. “I love you too, Superman,” she says and laughs. That Kryptonite laugh of hers.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #96? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

“I’m not wearing a stupid crown and that’s that,” Rene, the bride-to-be, said.

“It’s a tiara,” Clara said, her dark hair falling over her ear again, only to be wrapped behind it.

“It’s stupid,” Rene clarified.

“I had to wear one,” Ericka said, leaning forward to twist her pantyhose around her ankle. “Come to think of it, I do believe it’s you who enforced it.” She changed her mind and twisted the pantyhose the opposite direction. Neither method seemed satisfactory, so she dropped her ankle, bent, to the floor of the limousine.

Rene’s arms were crossed, her large breasts taking the brunt of the pressure. Men had accused her of showing off her breasts when crossing her arms. That she had crossed them because she was angry about something never occurred to them. Normally, Rene lay off arm crossing altogether, but she really didn’t want that fucking tiara.

“Yes, I remember that,” Clara said with a nod. “Listen, without the tiara, no one will know which one of us is the sucker.”

“I, for one,” said Ericka, twisting her rings forward, “am looking forward to some good flirtation tonight, and for that, I need you to sacrifice.”

Up the road, headed for the same entrance to the expressway, Andy told Rob that if he can’t tie a fucking tie right, he should just take it off.

“Girls like ties,” Rob said.

“What is that, like a double and a half Windsor? The knot is huge and the front is too short. Just take it off.”

Rob stared angrily at Andy and wondered why he was paying for this thing. Noah reached a hand out. “I’ll do it and give it back to you, okay?”

Noah took the tie and wondered why he offered. He wasn’t too good at tying these things himself. He put it around the back of his neck and concentrated on the balance of the lengths. He stared at the two ends and adjusted, and adjust again, before he had the guts to wrap the fat end around. Andy looked out of the window. He took a flask out of his breast pocket. He’d owned a flask for years, inherited his father’s when he died, and hadn’t used it. He brought it because it seemed that this night called for a flask. He raised it to his lips and took only the smallest of sips. It was still enough to make him wince. His stomach twisted. He still hadn’t made up his mind if he would tonight, should the opportunity arise.

Noah wasn’t sure that his knot was up to Andy’s standards, but gave Rob the tie back. Rob put the tie around his neck and set it. When it was done, Noah pulled the collar out of the back.

Ericka had opened her purse, was rummaging around in it, not knowing what she was looking for. She saw the strip of condoms. She’d argued that she was simply keeping her friends prepared, but some part of her had put them in there for herself.

Andy put the flask back into his breast pocket, flipping the condom that he’d put in there out of the way. He felt a pang of guilt for even having thought about it, but flicked it in his fingers anyway.

The police report read that vehicle one was headed northbound, turning east when southbound vehicle two, also turning east, collided its front bumper with the driver’s side door of vehicle one. There were no injuries and vehicle two was drivable. Vehicle one, however, had a convex door halfway into the driver’s seat.

The women climbed into the men’s limousine, the one that was still drivable, and laughed uncomfortably over the coincidence. Andy handed the flask to Noah, who got up to passing it around the girls. Rene was the only one who took it, her tiara sliding down her forehead as she leaned to take it. Noah pushed it back and smiled at her. Rene smiled back and giggled in a way that Noah found a little forward in a bride-to-be. But his cock, which had never listened to what his head found attractive, roused in his underwear anyway.

They sat quietly for a time.

Clara said, “Where were you guys headed?”

“Don’t know, exactly,” Noah said, trying to distract himself from Rene. “We just asked the driver to take us someplace with girls.”

Rob found this a little naïve-sounding and quickly interjected. “We were headed for Dram Avenue.”

“Yeah, us too,” Clara said. “You know, I will have some of what’s in that flask.”

Rob handed Clara the flask and she took a deep pull on it. She didn’t wince. Andy noticed.

“Which one of you is the victim?” Ericka asked. She had been careful to leave her left hand behind her purse. Noah and Rob pointed to Andy at once. “You?” she asked, pointing at him with what she discovered was her left hand. “You’re too young to get married!”

Andy looked at her and her hand pointedly. “Why? How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“Well, I’m twenty-six.”

“I know I’m too young, but this isn’t about me.”

“When am I supposed to get married then?” Andy asked, finally smiling as wide as Ericka.

“Well, never really.”

“Ohhhh. Wonderful advice.”

While Andy and Ericka talked, Clara leaned forward and dipped her finger in Rob’s tie. “You don’t know how to tie one of these, do you?” she said. She felt the silk run through the pads of her fingers as she loosened it. Rob rearranged himself closer to her, his chin up. Clara looked at his neck and noticed a small mole above the collar. The rest of it was flawless. His face was too close to hers, but she didn’t pull back. He took the tie and swung it around Clara’s neck. She crushed a smile and leaned back to tie it.

Noah and Rene passed the flask back and forth without speaking. Noah tried to watch Clara tie Rob’s tie, but Rene was unflappable, and stared at him as if she were trying to decide which of his body parts would taste best in a stew. His knee shook nervously.

Clara tied the tie quickly and flawlessly and made to give it back to Rob, but he refused it. Clara left it on and loose. “It looks better on you,” Rob said. Bizarre thing to say, he thought, but there was something about it on her that he found attractive.

“This is a nice tie,” Clara said, and flipped it to read the label. “Never heard of the designer, though.”

Rob went onto his knees and knee-walked over to her. Clara couldn’t help but blush. He examined the label on the tie and said he’d never heard of it either. He did not go back to his seat. Clara leaned forward so they could talk more comfortably.

Noah was made very uncomfortable by Rob’s sudden success. He realized that he’d been left with a married woman and the more likely candidate a bride-to-be. An image of the bride-to-be under him flashed in his mind and he rearranged himself on the seat. This was not lost on Rene, who smiled that she still had it. She took the tiara off and placed it on Clara’s head. Clara, in mid-sentence and grinning at Rob, snatched it with barely a pause and placed it back on Rene’s. They fought this way for a few passes before Rob took the tiara, placed it firmly on Rene’s head, pulled Clara to him by his tie and kissed her hard. Clara balked, then leaned into it, pulling Rob closer to her between her knees.

Noah visibly jolted when he saw this, looked at Andy, who glanced but didn’t seem to care, at Ericka who looked with a drawn face for a moment and quickly returned to Andy, finally to Rene, who winked.

“Why did you just wink at me?” Noah said. He had a hard-on like steel that was barely being forced down by his underwear.

“What’s the matter with you men these days?” Rene asked him, leaning forward so that Noah could see down her dress. “Don’t you want to be my last memory?” Noah took one more drink, petrified, and looked at her feet. That he had a foot and shoe fetish was something that neither one of the other men knew about. Rene’s shoes, patent leather pumps that neatly covered her feet, were his special favorite. He wanted to touch them so bad, the slight sticky leather, the give of the soft skin of her feet. Rene saw him looking and her face changed. Here was the solution to everything. Her left foot stretched out and aimed between Noah’s thighs. Noah clamped his knees shut, but Rene pushed harder, the heel catching on the seam of his pants.

“I still feel like her father disapproves,” Andy said. “At the engagement party, he had me follow him in his car to get to the restaurant and he lost me on purpose. Do you believe that?”

“Dads are still dads. I still see that look in my own dad’s eye sometimes when he’s looking at my husband. They never forgive the girl for growing up and blame it on the husband.

“So at least it’s not personal.”

“Yeah.”

Ericka took a glance at what Rene was up to and covered a laugh. Andy looked mortified. “Don’t worry,” Ericka said. “They’re not all like that. I’m sure yours is having a knitting party for her bachelorette.”

Andy sighed and remembered that she probably was. “Were you scared?” he asked Ericka.

“Of course.”

“But you feel better now.”

“Not really.”

Noah lay with his legs spread wide and let Rene do whatever she wanted to do. He didn’t care anymore. His hand hovered over her foot, which was pressed into his cock tightly. His cock ached something awful. She pressed her heel into his balls. He made a small “meep” sound and flushed. He took her other foot, slid the shoe off, and admired her toes through her stockings. The curve of her arch was amazing.

“Hang on,” she said. Her hands slid up her dress and made some snapping sounds. Down came the stocking. He pulled it off and he sucked her toe into his mouth softly. She moaned. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Best alternative ever. His tongue, warm and delightful, tickled the skin of her toes. She always knew she had sexy feet. And Noah, what balls to do this in front of his buddies. A real man, she thought. Her other foot dug deeper into Noah’s crotch, hooked and rubbed over his cock. He unzipped his pants. She went inside.

Rob had fallen into Clara. He was surprised at his sudden desire for her. He hadn’t actually counted on having sex that night. It rarely happened when Noah was around. Noah didn’t do anything wrong, really, just rarely made it his life’s work to fuck a girl. Clara wasn’t his type. She was a little more meaty, softer, than the girls he normally looked for. He felt her soft curves and pressed himself into her, felt her tits press hard into his chest. He leaned over her, raised her shirt, unlatched her bra and looked at them, her breasts, full and bouncy. Her nipples stood out, large and pink. He cupped one and pressed deep into the other. Clara began to breathe hard. She looked at Rene’s friend, pressed into the couch, sucking on Rene’s toes. Rene’s friend looked back at her, clearly in some other level of ecstasy. Clara felt her pussy swell. She took Rob’s hand and brought it in.

Rene slipped the other two clasps of her garter belt apart and pulled her foot out of Noah’s pants. “Pull it out,” she said.

Andy and Ericka had stopped looking. Their eyes stood fixed together, though their necks fought to turn. Though they didn’t acknowledge it, they were breathing fast too. Andy’s fingers bore down on the leather of his armrest and Ericka’s fingernails bit into hers. “Did the mothers fight?” she asked.

“With each other, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“No, mine stayed out of it. She was about to do something once and Denise’s mother kind of fired a warning shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“She offered to pay for the flowers and Denise’s mother just about broke into tears.”

“Brings out the worst in them.”

“Perfectly sane people before.”

“Wait until they start in on the babies,” Ericka said. She was interrupted by a loud gasp from Clara. Neither Andy nor Ericka looked.

Clara moaned because Rob had entered her. Her neck bent against the back of her seat and she wrapped her thighs around him. Her skirt bunched uncomfortably under her ass, but she couldn’t move it, didn’t move it. Rob began to pump, here in front of everyone and she could come just thinking about it. She pulled her muscles tight around him, watched the tension in his shoulders, the bend of his body as he thrust. She wondered if Rene was watching.

Rene was watching. Noah, cock out and being stroked by her toes, sticky with his saliva, saw her fishing through her purse. She popped her other shoe off on his knee and pinched the tip of his cock between her toes. The big one was perfectly oval. They were dumbfounding. She pulled a bottle of lube out of her purse. She carried lube in her purse. This woman was completely out of his league. She caught some of his precome between her toes and played with it. Stretched it and rubbed it. She handed him the Astroglide.

Rob fucked this girl hard, left grip streaks on her arms, bruises on her breasts with his teeth. Her eyes turned up and she screamed out, ending in a whimper, her muscles clutching and easing on his cock. He buried his face in her neck and bit it too, listening to her panting above him.

Noah poured the lube out over his cock and stared at Rene helplessly. He was trying not to look at her engagement ring. He saw Rob instead, pumping for all his life into Rene’s friend. He never knew it had come to this. Always thought of himself as the only pervert in any room. But here was Rob just fucking away right in front of him. He was so distracted that the pressure on both sides of his cock came unexpectedly. He looked down and saw Rene’s feet, his cock pushing through both arches. He gingerly, reverently, pressed them both in tighter.

Clara had come but it was only the beginning. That was the nervous one, the novelty. She could feel the real one building and was glad, suddenly, that her friends were here, that they would be here for this bomb that was coming, whistling through the air. She saw Rene’s feet and was shocked. She grabbed Rene’s thighs to get her attention. Rene smiled warmly and leaned over to kiss her. Clara blushed happily. That they did this sort of thing every once in a while was something they never told Ericka. She knew now. It was a relief, really. Clara’s hand dipped into Rene’s bush, slid into the hair for a while and then slid into the heat and wet. She rubbed against her clit with her ring finger.

Clara came again, the big one, the one that sent the limo shaking, the one that didn’t so much loosen a knot in her head but obliviate it. Rene guided her hand while she did until she was ready to think again. It would be quite a while. Rob turned his head and saw this. A new portion of ecstasy unfolded in him and sped up his release. He groaned loud and came like a machine gun, pumping sex into this wonderful girl. He cracked and burned and shook.

Andy and Ericka had given up trying to talk. They looked at each other with fear and understanding. They were mortified, clinging mentally to each other like two soldiers in a warzone. Ericka laughed, finally and Andy soon joined her. “Come on,” said Ericka. “Just one kiss before you go.” He laughed for a few more moments and leaned over to her. Their mouths met and they kissed sweetly and deeply.

Noah’s head was a kitchenful of chefs with flaming dishes in their hands, running and screaming in different directions. He wanted this to last forever, but when he saw Rene come, feeling the pulling jolts in the soles of her feet, he knew he stood no chance. The chefs threw the meals down and they joined and spread like napalm. He pressed her feet in hard and gave a few quick strokes, the come squirting up and falling on her ankle and on the floor and on her feet. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable onset of reality, the feet and the friends and Rene’s fiancé. He would be sad if he hadn’t just had the most amazing orgasm in his life.

The insurance guys arrived a few minutes later, the door answered by Andy, who had shut the lights off in the cab so his friends could get dressed. Everyone piled into a third limo, sent by Clara’s limo company. They were driven home in silence, Clara to her tortoise tank and laptop, Rene to her fiancé, Rob to his apartment and his roommate, who never did believe him, Noah to his home in the country with the koi pond. Andy’s fiancé met him at the door and he dragged her by the hair to the bedroom. Ericka went home to find her husband asleep and went to his stash of porn on the computer. She came three times before she went to bed. The respective weddings that weekend, all friends agreed, were quite a letdown.

About the Site

I've been writing smutty stories and realistic romance for years and this is where it's going to be now. Some of this won't be either. Some of this will be straight, some of it will not. I'll put in tags that will let you know which each one will be. If you don't like straight sex, don't read it. If you don't like gay sex, don't read that. If you don't like sex, go here.

I hope you enjoy it. Suggestions are welcome. Criticism is alright. Childishness will be met with similar.

I'm a normal person with problem obsessions that I enjoy to the fullest. I can type, spell, mix a real martini, kick your ass at Trivial Pursuit, click my heels, and charm people way prettier than me. On the other hand, I have no idea what a gallon looks like, cannot cook, forget names, live in guilt and smoke a lot. I drink too much. Do not ask me what 6x8 is because I need a calculator. Honest, I just don't know. I'm married to a beautiful man. I've never seen The Godfather uncut and I never will, so leave me alone, okay? I freak out. There's nothing better than a cool energy drink in the morning. Bush can suck my ass. That's it.
Stalkers start here:
In Your Face